


Blowing Smoke Rings in the Second Circle

by Enisy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Extremely Dubious Consent, Finger Sucking, M/M, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Succubi & Incubi, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24985795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/pseuds/Enisy
Summary: Mind control is a nifty trick, but it won't work on just anyone.(By now Gregory was grinding against him, whimpering. He was aware of how stupid he sounded when he said, “I like girls.”)
Relationships: Incubus/Straight Guy, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 24
Kudos: 262
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Blowing Smoke Rings in the Second Circle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



**Day 1**

“A three-day wedding.” Gregory repeated this a few more times, as if he could chant the concept out of existence, like a reverse Bloody Mary. “A wedding that lasts three days. A fucking three-day wedding.”

His sister, who happened to be a bridesmaid for the _fucking_ _three_ _-day wedding_ , shot him a knowing look. “Vivi has Eastern European roots. They do this kind of shit.” She flapped both arms at the plume of smoke he blew her way, grimacing. “And you didn’t _have_ to come.”

“They’re only gonna get married once,” said Gregory, “at least to each other.”

Truth be told, he’d gotten a pretty cushy arrangement, compared to Christian’s other friends. They’d been piled in the family homes ass over tit, sleeping on beds and sofas and on the floor in sleeping bags, while _he_ had a hotel room to himself. And all because he was a late invitee – having rekindled his friendship with Christian a few weeks before the wedding – so that they literally had nowhere else to put him.

“I didn’t peg you for the sentimental type,” said Jessie.

“I’m a fucking Hallmark card,” he replied. “Besides, there will be three other bridesmaids wearing that skimpy thing who I’m _not_ related to.”

“Gross,” she snorted. “And beside the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on. When was the last time you hit on _anyone_?”

He made a lewd gesture with the hand holding the cigarette, and took another drag. Around that point, Jessie got sick of spinning the cancer roulette and went back inside. He watched her through the sliding doors, as she made small talk with Vivi and an old couple he didn’t recognize. The wedding ceremony was not until day three, so there were only about a dozen guests around at any point, with fluctuating names and faces.

Gregory stayed. Gregory had made no plans beyond the wedding. It wasn’t his first time out of state, so he didn’t feel an obligation to Live His Best Instagram Life – and he liked things simple, quiet, easy. Maybe at some point he’d mingle with the other guests, but man, he hated that whole song and dance. Sizing someone up, sussing out what mask they wanted you to wear, wearing it. He was happy enough just existing in this space. Christian and Vivi had picked a nice venue for their reception: a spacious conference room leading out to a grass field, with a woody enclosure at the rim. Farther away was Montpelier, and farther still, the calligraphic _W_ of a mountain range.

“Can I bum one?”

Gregory glanced to his right, tracing the voice to its origin: a man his height, clad head-to-toe in black. It pissed him off when people mooched his cigarettes. There was a cheeky _Hey_ , _j_ _ust ‘cause_ _we’re_ _in Vermont doesn’t mean_ _we_ _gotta be_ _socialist_ _s_ at the tip of his tongue. But the guy seemed so kind and unassuming that he felt bad even _thinking_ it. Big blue eyes, long eyelashes, messy blond curls, he looked like a fucking Golden Retriever.

Still, Gregory thought... a moocher was a moocher.

“Yeah, maybe,” he said by way of compromise, “if you fetch me a beer from inside.”

The man’s eyes widened: clearly, this was not the answer he’d expected. Surprise transformed his face. He still looked inhuman, but in the other direction, like he’d been carved out of the Sistine Chapel. After a moment’s hesitation, he floated toward the bar, pausing a bit before the sliding doors. By the time he came back, Gregory’s cigarette had burned down to the filter, scorching at his fingertips. He stubbed it out on the heel of his shoe.

“Ta.” Gregory accepted the beer and tapped out a fresh filter. “You one of Christian’s friends?” he asked, intrigued by the guy’s Renaissance look but trying not to stare.

The man took the cigarette without comment, but did not light it. “Mike,” he said, as if that answered the question. “And you are?”

“Gregory.”

His new acquaintance grinned toothily, sending a dumb chill up Gregory’s spine, as his brain coughed up old folktales of witches and goblins stealing people’s names to weave into their magics. But again, that was just dumb, because Mike looked like a fucking Boy Scout.

“You’ve been here since morning,” said Mike. “Not gonna pay a visit to the illustrious state capital?”

“Well,” Gregory stalled. He didn’t want to answer, but the words went tripping out of his mouth anyway: “I like things simple. Quiet. Uh. Easy.” Aware of how uncool that sounded, he hastened to add: “And it’ll be easier to pick up chicks if I stick to one location for the next two days.”

Mike gave another one of these grins that bared his teeth, including one particularly sharp incisor. “I’ll spot you,” he offered.

“Oh,” said Gregory. He felt a bit weird about the proposal, given that they’d literally just met. But then again, he _had_ been a bit of an antisocial bastard all day, and Mike was friendly. He shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. “Thanks.”

“What’s your type?”

Brunette, he thought. “Blond,” he said like a complete jackass.

“Eight o’ clock.”

And Gregory guessed that’s what they must have done the rest of the evening, although his memories were obscured by a haze of... liquor? Liquor and fatigue. Somehow he ended up in his hotel room. Somehow Mike was there, too. No girls (and for a while there he’d thought he had a shot with Eight o’ Clock). Almost right away, he sank down on his knees, slumping over the bed with his upper body, not because he was too drunk to make it to the mattress but because something told him _this_ was the most comfortable spot for him right now. Mike was doting over him like a concerned parent, cooing and stroking his hair.

“Fuck off,” said Gregory without edge, tossing his head. Things escalated wildly from there. The hand in his hair tightened until it was clutching a fistful of it. He should speak up, some part of him realized, he should _struggle_ – but his thoughts felt sluggish, far away. When Mike grabbed his hair, it was as if he’d dunked his whole head underwater, and now the world was carrying on above him, around him, while he had no say in it. A thumb was pressed to the part of his lips. “Open up,” said Mike. “Do it.” Gregory did, and then the thumb was inside his mouth, large and thick and foreign, curving up until it touched his gums. He tried to demur, but all that did was push his tongue against the strange appendage. Pretty soon he was licking it, sweeping the tip of his tongue over it in long, greedy strokes, or flattening the whole muscle against it. “Good boy,” said Mike, removing the thumb and using it to mop the tears on Gregory’s cheek. When had he started crying? He looked up at Mike, dimly taking stock of his physique. Thin, long lips. Adam’s apple. Corded tendons. A strong jawline. Beautiful as his features were, this was very clearly a man’s face: the thought made him shiver.

Somewhere above the surface, Mike shoved his index and middle finger into Gregory’s mouth, while with his other hand, he wiped the tears that wouldn’t stop.

  
  


**Day 2**

The morning’s most shocking discovery was that Gregory was _not_ hung over. Whatever shit he’d been on, it had kicked harder going in than coming out.

The second most shocking discovery was that he’d fallen asleep on his knees beside the bed and had a seriously fucked-up dream about a stranger. A _male_ stranger. With barely controlled panic, he rifled through the mental images from last night, and was glad that his cock didn’t even dignify them with a twitch. False alarm. Thank God.

Nevertheless, Gregory did not feel like facing Mike at the reception again. It was too awkward: he didn’t remember half the shit he’d said or done before he passed out. So he gave him a wide berth, clinging to his sister like a remora fish for the better part of the day. He briefly considered talking to Christian, but holy _fuck_ , he hadn’t even knocked up his bride yet and already he was regaling people with dad jokes. Pass.

He also considered hitting up the girl from last night. However, he was pretty sure he’d gotten to first base with her, and the implications made him uneasy. What if she wanted more? He wanted it, too, of course, but – how? It had been too long. And frankly, he’d never been so good at the dating scene. Part of him hoped some Japanese pervert would revolutionize sex bots in his lifetime, so he could have satisfaction and companionship without having to deal with feelings. With _people_.

Vivi saved him from the rock and slammed him flush into the hard place.

“Board games!” she shouted. “We’re playing board games, guys! Split into groups of four and pick your table! You, too, Gregory!”

The table where he ended up consisted of a handsome middle-aged woman, the woman’s daughter, Christian and – just his luck – Mike. The game board had already been laid out for them: some complicated point-salad affair about herding cows. They were still figuring out the rules an hour later. In the time it took them to explain the teepees’ use, they would forget what a builder was good for. Gregory glared at the 2D cattle in his hand, silently blaming them for his predicament. His brain was a cartoon slaughterhouse by the time they got started.

Gregory surprised himself with his performance, though. His engineering degree meant he could wrap his head around systems thinking pretty easily… and the game didn’t require any interaction between players, so he could focus on his own resource management. He had a knack for estimating when to invest in cows and where to build houses and which disaster areas to clear up.

Until he didn’t.

“I’ll play this goal card and spend 12 dollars on a Texas Longhorn – ah, no, fuck, _shit_.” The woman at the table frowned at him, flicking her gaze to her daughter. “Whatever,” said Gregory, too irritated to apologize. “Cows are the pits.”

He didn’t know why he’d done that. Stupid move. The _fourth_ stupid move in a row. His mind had felt clogged for the past few minutes, not with any constructive thoughts, but just _noise_ , like he was subject to a DoS attack. Maybe the government was mind-raping him to steal his Great Western Trail techniques, he thought wryly – or maybe he’d been watching too much Alex Jones, ironically or not. Dammit, now he was so far behind he might as well sign out. There was no way he could catch up with the rest.

As if on cue, Mike cleared his throat.

“Gregory and I are going for a smoke break,” he announced, “so you can continue without us” – and Gregory was already standing up, although no words had passed between them, no loaded glances, nothing, and for once he didn’t even _want_ to smoke. It was pure impulse: something in his brain telling him that he ought to trust Mike’s judgment. He could sense the group’s eyes tracking them, and he felt a bit self-conscious, as if everyone knew what they were about to do.

Gregory jumped, startling himself: where had that thought come from? Of _course_ everyone knew what they were about to do. They were about to smoke. Right?

Weren’t they?

And yet, as soon as they’d stepped out of the sliding doors and onto the field, Gregory was reaching for Mike’s zipper, palming his crotch. It just... seemed like the thing to do. At the same time, he slurred, “Not here, please,” as if his hand _wasn’t_ currently spelunking in the guy’s pants. “Someone might see.”

Mike seemed unfazed by all of this. “Then you’ll just have to be quiet, won’t you?”

Gregory nodded. With some hesitation, he succumbed to the tiny flagman in his brain, who’d handed Mike the steering wheel, strapping Gregory’s own will to the backseat. His knees gave out on him, and then he was fumbling with Mike’s clothes, pulling his cock out with both hands, like it was the best birthday present ever. When it sprang out, it was red and massive and already half erect.

That caught him off guard, and he froze, his enthusiasm suddenly waning. He’d never seen another man’s penis before. Even when he watched porn, he made a conscious effort to look for lesbian videos, _specifically_ to avoid seeing another man’s penis. He didn’t know what to do with it. But of course, _Mike_ knew – Mike was prudent and dependable – and he maneuvered Gregory into the correct position with only a gentle little thought-nudge. Gregory gave the head an experimental lick, before wrapping his lips around it, moaning softly. He then proceeded to dip his head, taking more of Mike’s cock inside, inch by inch. He couldn’t believe the noises coming out of his mouth.

Mike reached down and threaded his fingers through Gregory’s hair. “That’s it, my darling,” he breathed. “You were so hot last night when you wouldn’t let me borrow a fag from you. You actually resisted persuasion for a good few minutes.” He chuckled under his breath. “You must have felt very strongly about your Marlboros.” He rolled his hip, hitting the back of Gregory’s throat so that he gagged, a deep gurgling sound. “You’re not resisting now.”

Gregory flared up at the implication, enough to yank his head back and gasp, “What _are_ you?” But the familiar weight reasserted itself in his mind, soothing him, reminding him of his unfinished task. Simplequieteasy: he liked things simplequieteasy. He clutched Mike’s knees and went down again. His cock was both too long and too wide, as if it was never meant to enter his mouth – someone else’s mouth maybe, but not _Gregory’s_. He gulped around its girth, his eyes beading with tears.

“An incubus,” said Mike suddenly, responding to an earlier question – and although Gregory couldn’t process the words at that moment, he would recall them vividly the next day. “I appear to men whose sexual desires are off kilter with their sexual practices in some way. Maybe they’re having too little sex, or the wrong kind, or with the wrong person. Mmm, yeah, baby. Take it. _Take_ it. You’re doing so well. If it were up to me, I’d have your mouth filled with cock every minute of the day, I’d strap you to me, I’d walk you around on a leash... Look over there, isn’t that the woman we were playing with earlier? You’re so cute when you cry, but keep going. Deeper. _Deeper_. There’s no need to be embarrassed. Show her what a good boy you are. Show her how well you can take my cock...”

  
  


**Day 3**

“Hey, man.”

“G-dude!” Immediately, Christian broke off his conversation with his niece and turned to him with a million-watt smile. Gregory felt a surge of guilt at the hollow feeling in his chest. It was his friend’s wedding day, and here he was about to bog him down with his own problems.

“So, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Looking forward to the big moment?”

“Dude, I’m beat! I just want to get it over with. I mean, a fucking _three-day wedding_? Who in their right mind – I mean, obviously, you know who, but –”

“Yeah, listen,” said Gregory, cutting to the chase. “The guy in my board game group yesterday – tall, blond, with sort of a seraphic vibe? Do you – I mean – is he one of your friends?”

“Oh, that Mike fellow?” Christian blinked. “We thought he was your plus one.”

Gregory’s blood froze in his veins. It was just as he’d feared. “My plus one?” he hissed. “I’m not fucking gay!”

His friend held up his hands defensively. “Hey, don’t bite my head off. Vivi just _assumed_ , you know, ‘cause he was always hovering around you.” Seeing Gregory’s terrified expression, he softened his approach. “Okay, so we got ourselves a crasher. No big deal. If we see him around again, we’ll kick him out.”

But of course that didn’t happen.

The ceremony was to take place at the town hall in an hour, but just as everyone was ready to leave, the bridesmaids and the best man felt the need to make a speech. Fan-fucking-tastic. Gregory was keeping an eye out for Mike, so he tuned out the anecdotes and the puns (except a particularly bad one about the word “marriage” having a nice “ring” to it). But when his sister took her turn on the mic, he let his guard down. Only briefly, only for a second, but that was a second too long.

Before Gregory knew what was happening, the incubus was beside him, and all his thoughts ground to a halt. Mike’s presence burned low and steady, like a candle, melting the wax figure of his self-control. In a way, Gregory didn’t mind. It was a relief not to have to make decisions, read people, second-guess himself. It was freedom. _Acquittal_. His arms felt heavy, though, and he hadn’t blinked in several seconds.

“What the fuck?”

“Don’t look, Sarah! It’s _not_ funny!”

“Jesus Christ, are they for real?”

The mumbles and the gasps proliferated. Gregory looked around for the source of the commotion, but all eyes seemed to be on him. He stared up at Mike in bewilderment, then dropped his gaze down to his own hands.

Which were on Mike’s crotch, unbuckling his belt.

After an almost comical pause, Gregory snatched his hands away with a whimper. All the blood in his body seemed to rush to his cheeks. _No no no no no no no_ _no no_ _._ A great, cold void yawned beneath his feet. _No,_ _I didn’t do_ _anything_ _,_ _you didn’t see_ _anything_ _,_ _mind your own business,_ _leave me_ _be_ _._

“Come on,” murmured Mike – was that even his real name? He looped an arm around his waist with casual indifference, as though Gregory were a patient and he was his physiotherapist. “Let’s get you to the hotel.” The last thing he saw before Mike steered him away was the look of horror on his sister’s face.

Even after they flipped the light switch, the room remained relatively dim. Energy-saving lamps. Gregory might have used that to justify why he stumbled over his suitcase on the way inside. He couldn’t hold back a yelp of pain. “ _Fuck_!” More softly, he repeated, “Fuck.” He’d only had one short glimpse of the people next door – a family of three – but he was seized with sudden dismay at the thought that they would hear him. That they would draw the wrong conclusions. The click of the door was deafening.

They were alone.

“Don’t,” Gregory pleaded.

“I’m not doing anything,” the man – the demon – replied. And indeed, he was just standing there, head tilted, hands at his sides. It was Gregory who’d twisted his hands into Mike’s shirt and begun to unbutton it. It was Gregory whose erection was currently straining at his dress pants.

“My head,” he said lamely.

Mike still wasn’t moving – just eyeing him up and down. “You want this,” he stated, “or I wouldn’t be here. I cannot tempt every random Tom, Dick and Harry. They need to leave a crack open in their psyche for me to slip in.”

By now Gregory was grinding against him, whimpering. He was aware of how stupid he sounded when he said, “I like girls.”

The demon’s upper lip twitched. “Maybe,” he allowed. “But the persuasion works on you, so at the very least you love sex more than you hate cock. Yeah, you’re such a rude, misanthropic bastard, it’s a wonder you’re not on the spectrum. I bet you haven’t gotten laid in _years_.” Three, Gregory thought vacantly. “I’m practically doing you a favor. You should be _thanking_ me for this.” The words were cruel, but his touch was soft when he stroked Gregory’s cheek. “Strip.”

Tears had welled up in Gregory’s eyes, and not only from fear. He straight up mewled when Mike bent him over the counter and pushed the first finger in. It felt strange and inappropriate, especially when he eased it in up to the knuckle. He wasn’t struggling, but his tormentor still made a point of pushing his shoulder down. Gregory could feel his cock stirring between his legs, but he refused to look down for confirmation. It was one thing to suspect it, and another thing to _know_ it, to _see_ himself dark and thick and swaying instead of limp and disinterested.

Mike checked it out, though. Of course Mike would.

“Look at you,” he said admiringly, fondling Gregory’s length. “Are you really straight, or just homophobic?” He dragged his tongue along Gregory’s earlobe. “Did daddy talk you out of dance class when you were little?”

Fuck you, Gregory thought, but what he said, what the incubus _forced_ him to say was, “Home economics.”

Mike rumbled with delight, before he introduced a second finger. A third. “That’s it, Gregory,” he purred. “Simple, quiet and easy, right? Just the way you like it.”

Which circle of Hell are you from, he wanted to ask, the one reserved for therapists and rapists? But the growing pressure in his head crushed that last piece of resistance. When Mike pulled his fingers out, Gregory caught himself whining in consternation. “Please,” he begged. “Please.”

“What do you want, baby? You want my cock?” He grabbed a handful of Gregory’s ass, squeezed it and let go, watching the flesh jiggle. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you can take it?”

The question pierced the fog in Gregory’s brain, as he considered Mike’s cock with trepidation. In the end, though, he nodded, repeating, “I can. I want to.”

Without further ceremony, the demon pinned him to the bed and worked himself in. It was like the fingers, but worse: Gregory couldn’t catch his breath. The feeling of being stretched and invaded only grew, until it felt like his soul was set to leave his body. The room echoed lewdly with the slap and rub of skin – Mike’s thighs against his thighs, Mike’s hand against his buttocks – and he was _sure_ the neighbors could hear them now.

“You _want_ them to hear,” said Mike, and it was an observation, not an order. “This is the most emotion you’ve shown in your _life_ , and you _want_ someone to witness it. I know. I know. You’ve craved this for so long, passion and fervor and pain, and you couldn’t make it happen. But I’ve got you now. I’ve got you.”

Gregory arched his spine, emitting a low, broken noise. The bed creaked.

“Gonna come in you,” Mike panted. “Gonna fill you up. Fuck, I want you so full of come you can taste it on your tongue. I want it still dripping out of you a week later. Do you want that, too? Show me how you want it.”

The idea made Gregory somewhat anxious – he didn’t know what properties an incubus’s semen had, whether he might chafe or catch something or get pregnant – but he nodded anyway and lifted up his ass. Mike angled his hips so that he was hitting his prostate with every thrust. The drag of his cock was both painful and sublime, and Gregory was a sobbing mess by the time he felt the organ twitch inside him. The incubus only had to reach down and grab Gregory’s own cock once, like a handshake, and he was spilling into the sheets. Mike emptied into him at the same time, and oh God, he hadn’t been joking: when he pulled out, Gregory felt so full it was as if Mike were still fucking into him.

He had barely come down from his high, and the incubus was propping himself against the headboard, his cock standing at attention again. It was too much, it was too soon, but Gregory found himself crawling toward him, practically drooling at the sight.

“Slut,” said Mike, stressing the _S_ , a condemnation.

“Yes.” The word flowed out easily; it cost him nothing. His head felt blissfully light.

“Say it.”

“I’m a slut.”

“Admit that you love this.”

“I love it,” Gregory said, sniffling a bit as he nosed at the engorged cock. From the window behind Mike, he had a perfect view of the mountains, and the sight reminded him of his first day at the reception. How distant he’d been. How joyless. It was easy to talk about his feelings now, easy to take pleasure in new things. He only had to relax into the weight of the incubus’s power, let him take the lead. He rubbed his cheek against the flushed length, making small whimpery noises, until Mike took pity on him and pulled him close.

“I didn’t know Vivi and Christian before Friday,” he said in a conversational tone, as Gregory bobbed his head up and down. When he looked up at the man’s torso now, he could make out the outline of wings on either side. Horns sprouted up from his angelic head. “But they seem like a good couple. They’ll stay together for a couple of decades at least.” His fingers cradled Gregory’s chin. The next bit sounded like a wedding vow: “I’m going to fuck your mouth forever.”

Gregory could only groan.

(In the afterglow, Mike smoked the last cigarette in the Marlboro Red package, and Gregory let him.)

**Author's Note:**

> I’m probably rehashing every single mind control cliché OR completely missing the point. Sorry! The kink is new to me. I did enjoy writing this, though.
> 
> I'm [enisywrites](https://enisywrites.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come on over if you want to drop me a prompt or a question, or to just say hi!


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